


The Great Escape

by grimeslincoln



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeslincoln/pseuds/grimeslincoln
Summary: Just as Daryl is about to give up all hope of ever escaping the Sanctuary, Jesus decided to make an appearance.





	1. The Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally got around to posting this, thanks to how the mid-season finale inspired me to finish it! I'm thinking about making this in to either a series or a multi-chapter fic about the evolution of Daryl and Jesus's relationship, so let me know what you think about that in the comments!
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Darkness.

It surrounded Daryl, creeping in to every single crack and crevice in the cramped cell, preventing him from being able to distinguish anything except his knees, which were tucked up protectively in to his chest and the hair that hung limply in front of his swollen eyes.

The room was filled with the stench of the dog food sandwich, courtesy of Dwight, that lay untouched by his feet and a flicker of dim light crept under the door, incapable of illuminating anything except a few inches of the dirty floor directly in front of it.

That damned song continued to play on repeat, the incessant tune looping again and again and again until it took every ounce of willpower that he had to stop from ripping his own ears off.

However other than that there was little sound; occasionally he would hear shuffling as the guard positioned outside changed shifts, low grumbling voices exchanging greetings before the silence took over once again.

The only times that he caught a glimpse of anything other than the four damp walls surrounding him was either when someone cracked the door open once a day to throw in another stale sandwich that he wasn't going to eat, or when Dwight came to fetch him so that Negan could parade him around like a puppet on strings.

He had learned to swallow down the shame and bubbling rage that consumed him whenever Negan would order him around, instructing him to carry out his every whim, instead resorting to following his demands without so much as a word of argument.

He knew better than to defy him. He had learnt the that the hard way.

Other than when the villain decided to treat him like a servant, Daryl rarely saw him and instead found himself constantly confined to his suffocating cell, chained and shackled as if he were a rabid animal.

Time meandered by slowly, one hour merging in to the next until Daryl was unable to tell whether it was day or night. He was unaware of how long he had been at the Sanctuary; it felt like years since he had first been thrown on to the cold concrete floor, yet he knew that in reality it had merely been days. The long hours were torturous and only provided him with a never ending amount of time to dwell on his actions and replay the horrific events of that night in the woods over and over again in his mind.

Every time he gave in to exhaustion and let his heavy lids droop shut he was met with the image of Glenn's mutilated face flashing before him, one of his eyeballs having come loose from its socket due to the impact of wood violently colliding with bone, thick red blood ripping down his face and in to his mouth until he was choking on his words.

"Maggie, I'll find you," his pained last message to his wife echoed repeatedly in Daryl's ears like a record stuck on a loop, accompanied by the dull sound of his head being beaten repeatedly in to the dirt.

Daryl hadn't been graced with the luxury of a shower since his arrival, and his friend's dried blood remained splattered against his filthy face, beginning to peel and crack.

His time in the dark room was also accompanied by endless thoughts of his family; he couldn't stop thinking about Maggie and the grief that she must be experiencing ( _thanks to you_ , a nagging voice in his head reminded him) and whether or not her baby had survived. He remembered being thrown in to the dirt, his eyes landing on her sickly pale complexion and gaunt sunken in face, looking like death personified. 

Despite having no medical experience, he knew that whatever was wrong with her, it must have been serious.

Daryl was curled up once again in his concrete prison, a heavy chain weighing down one of his ankles, the metal cutting in to his flesh and the rough material of his ragged jumpsuit irritating his skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around his torso, ribs protruding at sharp angles from lack of food and his head ducked in to his chest, eyes slowly beginning to drift shut despite the sound of the looping song emitting from outside.

He was finally close to unconsciousness, ragged breathing beginning to even out and muscles relaxing when he was snapped back to awareness by the distinguishable sound of a struggle coming from directly behind the door of his cell.

His entire body tensed, immediately alert and prepared to fight despite his overwhelming fatigue and lack of energy, as he listened to the commotion; he could just about make out the sound of flesh colliding and feet scuffling against the floor before there was a loud thud, which was unmistakably due a body impacting with the ground.

Silence descended for a few seconds and Daryl found himself nervous with anticipation, trying to figure out whether the person on the other side of the metal door was a friend or foe.

The quiet was interrupted by the rustle of a key being jammed in to the lock of the door separating Daryl from the rest of the world, the lock popping open with one simple turn of the key and the door swinging open, flooding the cell with light.

Daryl instinctively lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the light bulbs, the sudden luminosity a shock contrast to the murky shadows that he had become accustomed to during the past few days.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the new lighting, however once they did he lowered his hands, focus landing on the figure standing in the entryway.

He took in the details of the intruder; a short yet slender and agile frame was clad in dark clothes and a long leather trench coat, long mousy hair fell over defined shoulders, facial features were covered by a thin bandana, leaving nothing uncovered except intense blue eyes.

Jesus.

Daryl felt both surprise and relief flood through him, taking the place of the anticipation he had felt moments before, at the sight of the familiar man in front of him. However, he didn’t have long to process his reaction before Paul was rushing towards him, kneeling down to Daryl’s level so that he could grasp at the chain that bound him.

Daryl parted his dry lips, poised to question the other man on how exactly he was planning to break him out, when Paul slipped a thin key (Daryl assumed he had swiped it from the guard positioned outside) from up his sleeve, using his nimble fingers to speedily free him from his shackles.

“We need to move fast, by now someone will have noticed that some of the guards have been taken out,” Paul’s voice was calm and reassuring yet firm at the same time, and as if on cue, blaring alarms began to sound from every direction, alerting every Savior in the compound to the presence of intruders.

“Can you stand?”

Daryl merely grunted in response to the question, instead deciding to attempt to haul his body up from its sitting position. He used the dents in the wall to support his shaking frame, his lack of strength and energy making moving at all difficult. After a moment he managed to balance on his feet, pushing off of the wall slightly and finding that he was able to support his own weight.

He was pretty sure that the adrenaline coursing through his veins at the prospect of escape was the only thing keeping him up.

Paul appeared satisfied by Daryl’s response because the next second he was bombarding him with instructions.

“Okay, there’s a fire exit four corridors away from here; that’s how we’re going to get out. Stick close to me and follow my lead.”

Daryl would have snorted defiantly at the idea of the younger man ordering him around if he wasn’t in the middle of saving his ass. Instead he allowed Paul to shove a knife in to his hand, calloused and blistered fingers wrapping around the handle, and followed him out in to the corridor, attempting to block out the deafening shriek of the alarms.

Daryl watched in amazement as Paul immediately transferred in to stealth mode; his footsteps becoming light and silent and his body nimble as he dashed across the aisle and flattened himself against the opposite wall, peeking his head around the corner to look out for any enemies.

Daryl swiftly followed his lead, eyes darting down to the overweight guard who lay passed out on the floor at the entry to his cell, a dark bruise beginning to form on his temple, before he pressed himself up against the tiles of the wall, directly behind his rescuer.

The heavy thud of boot clad footsteps sounded over the wailing sirens and Paul peered around the corner to take a look at whoever was approaching. He whipped back, body slamming against the wall as he turned to look at Daryl, lifting three fingers to signal how many oncoming Saviors there were.

Daryl nodded in understanding, anticipating what Paul’s next move would be. He had doubts about how capable he himself was going to be when brought face to face with one of his captors considering his poor physical state.

Daryl swallowed down his concerns, instead working to steady his rapid heart rate and taking a glance at the man next to him, who had his eyes closed shut, body deadly still as he attempted to listen over the din.

Before Daryl could process what was happening, Paul had flung a tensed arm out from behind the wall at the exact second that the first approaching Savior turned the corner, his muscular limb instantly colliding with the larger mans throat.

The man staggered backwards, desperately clutching his throat in pain from where Jesus had successfully managed to collapse his airways. The second Savior came in to view and Paul wasted no time in pouncing on him, as if he were an experienced predator, taking down its prey.

Despite his small stature, Paul was clearly incredibly strong because he found no difficulty in pinning the man, who was nearly double his size, against the opposite wall, allowing him no room to move before plunging his sharpened knife in to the base of his skull.

The males body quivered for a moment before slumping down on to the concrete floor, still and lifeless.

Daryl overcame his surprise at witnessing the apparently peaceful man commit such a violent act and instead took this as his cue to spur in to action, using every ounce of energy left in him to push off from the wall, only to find himself face to face with the remaining attacker. The man in front of him appeared stunned by his sudden appearance and Daryl used his hesitation as an opportunity to hit the assault rifle out of his hands, the weapon clattering to the floor, kicking it out of his opponent’s reach.

The Savior was quick to snap out of his daze, managing to land a hard blow to Daryl’s face before he could raise his arm to block it. He stumbled back from the impact, the ringing in his ears from the punch almost overwhelming, and tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from where his lip had been split.

Daryl could feel his energy dissipating, the effect of lack of sleep and food finally beginning to set in as his adrenaline rush wore off, and all he could do was watch helplessly as his opponent scrambled to collect his weapon, swinging the rifle round so that it was inches away from Daryl’s skull, clubbed fingers poised on the trigger, ready to shoot.

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, unable to muster the energy to even fear what was about to happen, as he waited for the final shot.

 _Maybe this will be easier_ , the taunting voice in the back of his mind made its return. _Maybe this is what you deserve_.

But the shot never came.

Instead Daryl felt a rush of air as something flew past his shoulder, narrowly missing the side of his face, and when his eyes shot open to see what was going on, he was greeted with the sight of the Savior in front of him, gasping desperately for air, with Paul’s blade lodged in to the socket of his left eye.

Thick scarlet blood dripped from the gaping wound, down the man’s cheek, and after a few moments of pained spasms, he dropped to a heap on the floor.

Daryl released a breath that he was unaware he had been holding, every inch of his body trembling uncontrollably (whether it was from fear or overtiredness, he was unsure). He turned his head to find Paul standing directly behind him, hand still in position from where he had flung the knife with expert aim, bandana having come loose and slid down so that it was draped around his neck to reveal his scruffy beard and parted lips.

The two stared at each other for a moment before being snapped back in to the action by the continuation of the alarms, propelling Paul to move forwards towards the man he had just killed, bending down to dislodge the blade from his bone with a sickening crunch.

The younger man grimaced as the metal came loose, chunks of skin stuck on the clean edge, and Daryl could tell that this wasn’t something he enjoyed doing; there was nothing to suggest that Paul was a violently inclined man.

That fact only worked to make Daryl appreciate what he was doing for him even more.

“Come on, we need to get out of here,” Paul’s voice was more urgent than before and he started off down the hall, footsteps almost inaudible.

Daryl hesitated a moment before following, pausing to reach down and snatch the rifle out of the limp hands of the corpse on the floor.

The two men continued on their way out of the compound; Paul constantly on the look out for any immediate threat whilst Daryl lagged behind, pace having slowed considerably due to his quickly disappearing energy.

After what felt like hours of sneaking down damp corridors and hiding behind walls in order to avoid being spotted, the two men finally reached a fire exit.

 Daryl was pretty sure that he could have cried with relief at the sight of the large doors and the dim green sign above them.

He was unable to push down the fear that consumed him at a recent familiar memory; running hopefully out of the same two doors, in to the open courtyard filled with motorcycles, only to find himself cornered like an animal before being beaten until he could hardly breath.

Paul checked the walkway was clear before moving towards the exit, Daryl close on his heels with the rifle raised in preparation, awaiting what was on the other side.

However, when Daryl followed the younger man out in to the open, all that he was greeted by was the gentle touch of fresh air against his skin and the warmth of sunlight against his face.

He allowed himself to take a moment to appreciate being free of his murky cage, the gentle breeze of wind and the warmth of sun light being something he had begun to suspect he would never experience again.

The moment was cut short by Paul’s body tensing besides him, knife now raised, ready for a fight.

His eyes whipped up, the rifle in his hand raised and finger ready to pull the trigger, to find Dwight positioned in front of him, his own crossbow clasped in his hands, bolt pointed directly towards Daryl’s temple.

 _Of course_ , he almost laughed to himself. _Of course he wouldn’t be able to get out without running in to this fucker._

The two men stood, locked in a tense standoff, both with weapons ready to fire at any moment.

Daryl could feel his blood boiling in anger as he took in the sight of the scarred man in front of him, hair limp and greasy and the skin on his face red and irritating, clothed in Daryl’s very own beloved leather vest.

To think that he had the opportunity to kill the bastard, long ago out in those burnt out woods, was almost to hard to think about.

“Just let us go, man,” Daryl finally dared to break the thickening silence that had settled between them, deciding to play to the side of the man that he knew hated being there just as much as he did.

Dwight refused to react to Daryl’s request, keeping his stance.

“I get why ya did it, I get why ya stayed,” Daryl’s voice was shaky as he continued, gulping down his pride, “but ya don’t wanna do this; you can jus’ let us go right now. He’ll never know.”

It physically pained him to have to attempt to sympathize with the scum in front of him when all he really wanted to do was snatch the crossbow out of his grasp and finish him off once and for all with it.

But he knew that this was his only chance of getting away.

Dwight stared at Daryl, eyes uncertain and clearly considering his options, for what seemed like hours as the three men stood facing each other, the sound of the alarms still echoing from the building like a reminder of the ticking time.

Daryl knew that they had minutes before more soldiers began filing from the building and found them out here, ending any chance they had of escape.

Just when he thought that Dwight wasn’t going to budge and that all hope of leaving was lost, the villain decided to move; lowering the crossbow, with gritted teeth, until it was pointed at the floor, clasped loosely in one hand.

Daryl was unable to stop the faint sigh of relief that escaped his lips at Dwight’s actions, the prospect of being free almost too much to handle.

“I’m sorry,” Dwight’s voice was almost a whisper as he lifted solemn eyes to stare at the man he had continuously tortured.

“I don’t give a shit,” Daryl growled in response, striding forwards, rifle still aimed at the scarred face in front of him as he snatched his bow from his hands, the weapon fitting in to his grasp comfortably, as if it were an extension of himself.

Dwight didn’t protest, merely stood there looking sorry for himself.

“An’ the vest.” He nodded to the piece of clothing that clad the other man’s back, refusing to leave any part of himself at this damned place.

Dwight appeared hesitant at the other man’s request, however Daryl quickly spurred him in to action by lifting his bow so that it was pressed against his mutilated temple, the blaring sirens making him aware that he didn’t have all day to hang around.

The silent threat inspired Dwight to move as he removed the vest, pulling off the item of clothing and shoving it in to Daryl’s outstretched hand.

Daryl hurriedly shrugged the item on before slinging the rifle over his shoulder, swapping the hands with which he held his crossbow.

“He’ll find you,” Dwight’s gruff voice spoke up. “He always doe-”

The man’s words were cut off by Daryl’s hard fist colliding with his face, blood spraying from his nose as the bone crunched sickeningly, his limp body falling to the gravel, out cold.

“Shut up,” Daryl ordered his unconscious frame, glaring down at him in disgust and annoyance before turning back to his rescuer, who watched on, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips despite the dire circumstances.

“Le’s go,” Daryl told him, having absolutely no desire to stay in this compound for any longer than necessary.

Paul nodded in agreement, turning to the closest bike to him, making quick work of hotwiring the vehicle until the engine was purring healthily.

Daryl felt a hint of amazement as he watched Paul’s delicate fingers play with the colored wires; he didn’t know why he was surprised at the man’s hidden skill, especially when he remembered that during their very first encounter the hipster looking ninja had stolen their truck.

Paul proceeded to sling his leg over the seat of the bike, shuffling forwards so that there was plenty of room for Daryl to fit on the back.

The older man opened his mouth to protest, ready to tell Paul that he was perfectly capable of riding his own bike and that no way in hell was he riding behind him, however the younger man beat him to it.

“You can barely stand,” Paul’s eyes flickered down to Daryl’s shaky frame, clearly having noticed that he was practically dead on his feat, ready to collapse now that both the adrenaline and his anger at Dwight had evaporated, leaving him weak and fatigued. “Just hurry up and hop on.”

Daryl frowned slightly at the orders, but soon realized that he didn’t have the time to argue, moving to fix his crossbow on to the back of the vehicle and ignoring the slight awkwardness he felt as he perched himself on the seat behind Paul, attempting to ignore the warmth that spread through him as their bodies pressed together.

Paul started up the ignition, the engine roaring to life, and Daryl paused for a moment before hesitatingly slipping his arms so that they were clasped around the other man’s torso, grip loose. The younger man didn’t react to the touch, merely maneuvered the bike until they were riding out of the gates of the courtyard, past the middle-aged guard who lay either unconscious or dead on the floor (Daryl was certain that that was Paul’s handy work).

Daryl could physically feel his muscles relax as he found himself riding further and further away from the place he had been held captive, until eventually the compound was nothing but an indistinguishable blur on the horizon.

The ride was silent, the only sound Daryl could hear being the rush of the wind in his ears and the gentle rumble of the engine behind him.

He could feel himself becoming more and more tired with every passing moment, unable to stop his body from slumping until his head was rested comfortably between the shoulder blades on Paul’s back, too tired to care about the intimacy of the contact, as the exhaustion that he had been fighting off finally overcame him.

Eventually his heavy lids drooped shut and the tension that had seeped in to his bones began to ease, until finally, he could sleep.


	2. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl is met with an unexpected welcome upon his return to the Hilltop.

When Daryl's eyes fluttered open he was greeted by the sound of creaking gates, a dull, throbbing ache in his shoulder where the bullet wound was engraved and the warmth of a body pressed against his own.

It took a moment for him to drag himself out of his slumber, vision tinted by sleep, as he pushed himself upright, sore muscles groaning in protest.

He made an attempt to push his greasy hair away from his face, strands matted together from both sweat and blood, and took in his familiar surroundings.

The motorcycle on which he was slouched was standing stationary in front of the gates of the Hilltop, engine still buzzing, waiting for the large wooden entryway to be pulled open to allow the vehicle to pass through.

Paul was still sat comfortably in front of him, hair wild and untamed thanks to the wind that had been blowing through it for however long they had been riding, the middle of his back warm from where Daryl's head had been leaning against it as he had slept.

Paul, sensing the lack of contact between his shoulder blades, turned his head, pulling his bandana away from his mouth as he done so, to look at Daryl through sharp blue eyes.

"You were out cold," he commented, "must've been asleep for at least a few hours."

Daryl merely grunted in response. It was uncharacteristic of him to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time in a normal bed, having grown accustomed to getting up for look-out shifts and keeping an eye out for the undead at all times, let alone on the back of a moving bike, using someone that he barely knew as a makeshift pillow.  
However, he wasn't surprised; over the last few days he had barely gotten more than an hour or so of sleep.

Paul didn't get the opportunity to say any more, because the next second the gates had been fully opened and the guard atop of the wall was motioning for them to enter.

Paul eased the bike past the fence and in to the community, stopping a few meters over the threshold.

Daryl hesitated a moment before swinging his leg behind him so that he could push off of the bike, hoping that his legs would be strong enough to support him.

His knees shook slightly as his scuffed boots came in to contact with the ground, taking a moment to adjust to having to hold his weight after hours of sitting down.

His vision blurred slightly as he propped himself upright, dark spots appearing in front of his eyes (he assumed it was due to a mixture of malnutrition, dehydration and blood loss), however before he had the chance to collapse he felt firm hands against his bicep, preventing him from falling to the floor.

He lifted his head slightly to find Paul at his side, a concerned frown etched in to his forehead.

"We need to get you to Doctor Carson right now; let him check you over and get you fixed up."

"M'good," Daryl insisted defiantly, shrugging the other man off and trying to stand on his own.

"Seriously, at least let hi-"

Paul's well meaning words were cut off by Daryl's sharp intake of breath. The younger man lifted his head to find what had provoked such a sudden reaction from him, his gaze landing on Maggie standing a short distance away, having just exited one of the trailers.

She looked much healthier than she had upon her arrival to Hilltop just under a week ago; she was still pale however a slight tint of colour had returned to the apples of her cheeks, the bags under her eyes were beginning to fade and she had regained some of her strength.

She stood, an expression of complete shock having overtaken her features, body frozen. Sasha lingered behind her, a similar look of surprise on her face.

Daryl was tense next to Paul, muscles locked in place, apprehension clear in his eyes.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind in a matter of seconds; the last time he had laid eyes on the woman she had been knelt in the dirt, witnessing the brutal murder of her beloved husband, unsure if their baby was going to survive or not.

Daryl tingled with nerves as he stood in the open, anticipating Maggie's next move. He was expecting her to break in to a fit of rage; to stride up to him and connect her clenched fist with his jaw, to start screaming about how she hated him and how her husband was dead because of his actions.

 _God knows, you deserve it_ , the nagging voice in the back of his mind made it's return.

However Maggie done no such thing. Instead, after recovering from her shock, her face spread in to a grin, eyes lighting up as she spurred herself in to action, breaking in to a jog towards the newly escaped man.

Daryl was nearly knocked off his already shaky feet as Maggie slammed in to him, her skinny arms wrapping themselves around his neck and she rested her chin on his shoulder.

He could feel her shaking against him, warm tears of joy dripping on to the dirty jumpsuit that he was yet to change out of.

Daryl broke out of his state of surprise, hesitantly moving to reciprocate the embrace, finally releasing the breath that he had been holding.

He couldn't help the salty tears that escaped his eyes as he held Maggie, overcome with relief that she didn't hate him, the knot of guilt in his chest easing ever so slightly thanks to her acceptance.

"Thank God, you're okay." she breathed in to his neck before pulling back, stepping back slightly to look him over and evaluate the state that he was in.

"'Bout you?" Daryl asked. "The baby?" He added on hesitantly, voice barely above a whisper in fear of what the answer would be.

"I'm doing okay. So is the baby; we're both going to be okay," she reassured him with a warm smile. "Carson checked me over; said it was somethin' to do with the placenta. Nothin' that can't be fixed with a lotta rest."

Daryl nodded, an indescribable feeling of ease filling him at the news. The fact that the baby would survive, and before long a small piece of Glenn would be making is way in to the world, made everything just a tiny bit better.

"We need to get you seen too by Carson," Maggie insisted after Sasha had also welcomed her friend, wrapping him in a quick hug and letting him know how glad she was to see him.

"M'alright, no need." Daryl shook his head, the idea of getting prodded and poked by a doctor sounding less than appealing. All he wanted to do was get showered up, change out of the damned itchy prisoner attire he was currently clad in and get some food in him that wasn't made for dogs.

"It wasn't a question," Maggie told him firmly, arms folded over her chest and eyebrows raised, as if daring him to argue with her.

"Fine." Daryl knew better than to argue with her.

"I'll take him; I need to speak to Carson about medical supplies anyway." Paul offered, speaking up for the first time in minutes, having been watching the heart-warming scene unfold in front of him with a smile. "You need to get some more rest," he reminded Maggie.

The woman opened her mouth to argue before being silenced by the pointed looks on both Sasha and Paul's faces, realising that she wasn't going to get anywhere.

"Okay," she agreed reluctantly. "I'll come and see you in a bit," she told Daryl, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and shooting him a warm smile.

"And you," Maggie spun towards Paul, pointing an accusing finger at him, "don't think you're getting let off the hook so easily. Quick supply run my ass," she huffed, shooting him a glare before turning to head back towards the trailer she had emerged from, closely followed by Sasha.

The two men stared after her wide-eyed for a moment. That woman was a force to be reckoned with.

"Let's get you to the infirmary," Paul broke the silence that had settled between them, pulling off his leather gloves and stuffing them in to his pocket before reaching out for Daryl.

"Can do it myself," Daryl shook him off, limping forwards slowly.

"Okay..." the younger man sounded unconvinced as he watched Daryl's shaky frame start to make its way across the grass.

This was going to take a while.

* * *

 

 What felt like hours later, Paul had managed to get Daryl to sit relatively still on one of the beds in the medical trailer.

If anything could be said about Daryl Dixon, it was that he was unflinchingly stubborn. Every time Doctor Carson even thought about checking his wounds he would swat his hands away, grumbling under his breath about how he "ain't no damn baby."

Getting him to sit still was even more of a challenge; every few minutes he was back on his feet, pacing back and forth behind the drawn curtain, running dirty hands through his sweaty hair.   
Paul was beginning to think that a naughty toddler would be a better patient than Daryl, and he was pretty sure that the amount of grey hairs on Carson's head had doubled since the moment he had staggered through the door.

However, after nearly half an hour of Daryl's protests, Jesus had managed to get him to comply by using the promise of a pack of cigarettes as an incentive.

"I don't think that's a good id-" Carson has begun to object to Paul's bribery, before being silenced by a firm look from the long haired man.

Daryl quickly agreed to the deal, immediately nodding his head, having been itching to get his hands on a smoke since the moment he had been thrown in to his concrete jail at the Sanctuary.

Paul disappeared from the infirmary after that, leaving the doctor to his work and promising to return with a change of clothes and a pack of cigarettes.

This left Daryl in the company of the medical practitioner, who was intent on getting a look at his wounds.

"The sooner you let me look, the sooner it'll be over," Carson reasoned with him as Daryl stared at the rubber gloves on his hands with unease.

He was tempted to continue refusing, hoping that eventually the man would just give up and finally let him leave, until a sharp twang of pain pierced through his his back where the bullet wound was, causing him to hiss in discomfort.

He gritted his teeth, knuckles gripping the edge of the bed until they turned a sickly white, attempting to stop himself from crying out until the pain ebbed slightly.

When he next met the doctor's gaze he wasn't quite as inclined to argue.

"Fine," he muttered, nodding his head at the man in front of him to signal that he could go ahead.

Carson wasted no time in getting to work, flitting around like a fly as he grabbed equipment that Daryl had never even seen before, using the utensils to examine his patient.

Daryl forced himself to bite his tongue and refrained from moving as the doctor carried out his work; shining bright lights in to his eyes, checking his blood pressure and taking his temperature.

Daryl hated it; he felt like some sort of animal being prodded curiously by an inquisitive child. He had rarely visited a doctor before the apocalypse began, due to how doing so only raised questions about the cuts and scars that littered his back, courtesy of his father, and instead had been resigned to patching himself up, imitating the way that he used to watch his mother bandage up her cuts and bruises.

Daryl shook the memories from his head, Negan's treatment of him having brought up images that  
he would much rather forget.

"Now I really need to get a look at that bullet wound," Carson broke the quiet in the room. "So, I'm going to need you to take your shirt off for me."

Daryl tensed slightly at his words, the idea of being exposed and vulnerable in front of a complete stranger making him want to run and hide.  
However he knew that he had little choice in the matter; if the injury was allowed to fester then he didn't like to think what would happen to him.

Daryl glanced warily at the ageing man in front of him before hesitantly reaching his hands back to where the jumpsuit done up, unclasping it and removing his arms from the sleeves so that the ragged material drooped, falling in to his lap and leaving just his torso exposed.

He refused to meet the other man's eye, instead deciding to focus on a brownish stain on the curtain in front of him as the doctor busied himself with work.

Carson started with the entry wound, which had been haphazardly treated by the doctor at the Sanctuary. Dark blood tinted Daryl's chest and the skin around the injury was red and irritated.

He hissed as the doctor began to clean the wound, the pain caused by the ripped flesh and shattered nerves almost too much to bare.

Carson soon moved on to the hole in the back of Daryl's shoulder, where the bullet had gone straight through him. If the doctor was taken back by the old, mottled scars that decorated his spine he didn't say anything, merely continuing on with his work without hesitation.

After what felt like a lifetime of being poked around, Carson was finally finished, moving to stand in front of his patient in order to give his diagnosis.

"The good news is," he started off cheerily, "that it was a clean shot; the bullet went in and out so there's no need for me to go fishing around in your shoulder for fragments."

"An' the bad news?" Daryl probed him, more concerned about what was wrong than what was right.

"Well, whatever doctor treated you was clearly more concerned about doing it fast because he closed the wound up too soon. He confined the infection, which has left you with a case of sepsis."

"What's that?" Daryl grumbled, not enjoying having no idea what the man in front of him was on about.

"A condition brought on by an infection; it explains your high temperature and elevated heart  
rate. To be honest, I'm surprised that you're still conscious."

Daryl was surprised by that too, especially considering how fatigued he currently felt.

"I've cleaned and dressed both of your bullet wounds, but to treat the sepsis I'm going to have to give you antibiotics intravenously, meaning you're going to be hooked up to a drip for a few days."

"Nah, I-"

"And if you don't get the antibiotics soon, then the results could be fatal," Carson firmly cut off Daryl's protests, his serious words immediately silencing him.

"'S that it?"

"That's the worst of it; I'll have to put your arm in a sling, stop you doing anymore damage. You've got a couple of broken ribs but they should heal on their own, I'll just give you some painkillers to make you more comfortable and the swelling and bruising on your face should go down in a couple of days," he listed off, sounding much too chirpy considering the topic of conversation.

Daryl attempted to listen to his words, guessing that they were probably important, but all that he could hear was a jumble of syllables that he barely understood and cared even less about.

And he had a feeling that the doctor wouldn't let him be up and about as soon as he had hoped.

Typical.

* * *

 

The sun was beginning to set, the sky overtaken by a soft pink hue, when Paul returned, signalling his arrival with a chirpy greeting.  
"Can I come in?" his voice sounded from behind the curtain, stopping Daryl in the midst of fiddling with the drip currently attached to his arm.

"Only if ya got my smokes," he replied gruffly, propping himself up slightly in the uncomfortable bed, the pillows feeling too soft compared to the hard floor that he had become accustomed to sleeping on over the past week.

He heard the other man let out a breathy laugh before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Paul standing there, a packet of cigarettes and a couple of books balanced upon a pile of clothes in his arms.  
He had changed out of the dark leather clothes that he had rescued Daryl in, instead now comfortably clad in trousers and a loose fitting white shirt, having clearly showered due to how the blood and dirt was gone from his skin and his hair was cleaner, falling softly around his shoulders and framing his face.

He rested the items he was holding on to the wooden chair next to the bedside and folded is arms over his chest.

"You know you shouldn't play around with that," Paul nodded towards the IV drip, a knowing look on his face.

Daryl didn't even bother asking how he knew that he had been; dude was a fucking ninja.

"Sorry I took so long; Maggie cornered me," Paul explained, and Daryl needed no further explanation.

Instead the older man reached out for the packet of cigarettes, pulling one out and resting it in between his split lips.

"You got a light?" he questioned Paul, eyebrows raised expectantly, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"You shouldn't smoke in here," the younger man attempted to protest, however upon seeing the stubborn expression on Daryl's face he let out a resigned sigh and dug his hand in to his pocket, pulling out a lighter.

Daryl gratefully accepted it, lighting up the cigarette and taking a long drag, savouring the nicotine that filled his lungs, immediately working to ease the tension in his muscles.

Silence settled over them for a few moments, Daryl contently smoking away whilst Paul watched in amusement.

"So, what was Carson's diagnosis?" the younger man spoke first, causing Daryl's attention to turn to him.

"Load'a shit; somethin' 'bout an infection, couple'a broken ribs," he shrugged casually, as if his injuries were nothing serious. "He's got me on some real good painkillers though."

Paul took in Daryl's appearance; he looked better than he had a few hours ago. He hadn't yet cleaned up (he had rejected Carson's initial offer of a sponge bath, which led to the option of having a shower the next day, when the doctor could wrap up his wounds so the bandages didn't get wet), however he seemed brighter and more alert, his eyes no longer containing the hazy, distant look that they previously had.

"I brought you some clean clothes; they're mine so they might be a little small but they should do for now," Paul informed him.  
Paul looked at the pile of items in question, his eyes landing on the two novels on top.

"What are they?"

Paul's eyes flickered down to what the other man was looking at, smiling slightly when he realised what he was referring too.

"Uh...I thought you might get bored sitting in here so I brought you some books. You don't have to read them if you don't want, I just thought you could-"

"Thanks," Daryl cut off what was turning in to a ramble, a small appreciative smile making its way on to his features.

He picked up the paperbacks, studying the covers that he didn't recognise, reading the titles; _Gulliver's Travels_ and _Oliver Twist_.

Daryl had never been a big reader; his father had always forced him and Merle in to activities that he deemed 'manly', such as hunting and camping, however he recalled that he used to enjoy evenings as a young child, when his mother would drag herself out of her drunken stupor and read stories to him before he went to bed.

He couldn't deny that he appreciated the other man's thoughtfulness.

"Okay, well I'll leave you to get some rest. Maggie told me to let you know that she'll come and see you tomorrow," Paul informed him.

"She okay?" Daryl was quick to ask, dropping the books in to his lap and expectantly awaited a reply.

Paul hesitated, thinking about his answer for a moment. "She's as okay as she's going to be. Carson is keeping a close eye on her and so is Sasha."

Daryl nodded, the reassurance that Maggie was coping being a huge comfort. He had so many things that he wanted to say to her and yet no idea quite how to put his feelings in to words.

"Hey," Paul spoke up, as if sensing Daryl's inner conflict, "she doesn't blame you; none of them do. She was worried sick about you while you were gone."

Daryl chewed on his lower lip, taking one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in one of the medical trays on the bedside cabinet, ignoring Paul's disapproving stare.

Daryl was thankful for Paul's attempt to set his mind at rest, however he still found it hard to believe that Maggie didn't resent him.

When the older man remained silent, Paul stuffed his hands in to his pockets and turned to leave, deciding that he should leave him to regain his strength.

"Paul," Daryl's croaky voice called out, stopping the other man in his tracks. Paul attempted to hide the warmth that he felt at Daryl's use of his real name, however he was unsurprised that he refused to use his nickname, turning to face the man in the bed.

"Thanks...y'know, for everything," Daryl mumbled, voice quiet and gaze downcast, avoiding eye contact, fiddling nervously with the sheet that covered the bed.

Paul bit back a smile, finding the other man's bashfulness undeniably hear-warming.

"There's no need to thank me," he shook his head, the last thing he wanted was for Daryl to feel indebted to him.

"Still..." Daryl shrugged, adamant that the younger man was aware of how thankful he was that he had risked his life to help him and ended his torture.

Paul nodded, accepting the gratitude.

"Goodnight Daryl," he spoke softly.

"'Nite," the older man responded before Paul ducked under the curtain, disappearing from sight, leaving Daryl with the books, his cigarettes and a hell of a pain in his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for reading! 
> 
> Make sure to leave a comment (they help me write faster!)
> 
> Twitter: @grimeslincoln


	3. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul helps Daryl to deal with his guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this chapter is FINALLY up and I really hope you enjoy it. This will be the last chapter, as this fic is mainly just about what happens immediately after Daryl's escape from the Sanctuary however I am planning on writing some Daryl x Jesus oneshots and drabbles so please comment any suggestions or requests that you have for those. 
> 
> Thankyou for reading and please leave any feedback in the comments, it's much appreciated!

The sun was setting in the sky, casting a warm orangey glow over the Hilltop community, the dim rays of light filtering on to the buildings as Paul exited the medical trailer, having just visited the injured man inside. He paused on the creaky wooden steps, sweeping his long hair off of his face and fastening it with an elastic band that dangled around his wrist, glancing around his surroundings as he done so.

The last of the working residents were packing up their equipment; the blacksmith was finishing up, hammering away on his latest piece of work, the horses were being led back to their stables and one woman was hanging up the last of her washing on the line outside of her trailer.

Sometimes, Paul mused, that you could almost forget about the decaying monsters and the end of all civilization when you were tucked up safely behind tall walls.

That’s one of the main reasons that he had initially volunteered to be the main supply runner (other than his speed and agility); he was scared that the danger of the brutal new world would become a distant memory if he stayed hidden in the community and therefore he made sure that he was out always out there, reminding himself that he was not safe. He never would be.

Paul could hear Doctor Carson’s chides drifting out of the open door of the medical trailer, likely directed at Daryl for smoking inside, and he couldn’t help but smirk to himself; he had made a bet with Sasha a few hours ago as to how long it would take Daryl to break the obstetrician. He had wagered a week. Sasha had gone with forty-eight hours.

He was starting to think that she might win.

He continued his descent down the steps, his dirtied boots making contact with the grass, and nodded politely to one of the elderly residents that he passed on his way back to his trailer, the only thought on his mind being curling up under the sheets of his bed and sleeping for as long as humanly possible. Paul could barely remember the last time that he had closed his eyes for more than a few minutes in the past two days, having been swept up in the chaos of infiltrating the Sanctuary and then having all of his focus concentrated on getting Daryl out of there. Now that the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins was beginning to dissipate he was overcome with exhaustion, his body aching in protest every time he moved and his heavy eyelids battling to droop closed.

The young man was so focused on getting back to his residence without falling asleep on his feet that at first he was oblivious to the shouts of his name.

“Jesus!”

The booming voice caught his attention as it drew closer and he lifted his head in the direction of the call, his gaze settling on Gregory striding purposefully towards him and his face flushed red (whether it be from anger of the fact that he had exerted himself by getting off of his ass, Paul was unsure).

He resisted the urge to sigh at sight of the man, gritting his teeth together in preparation for the onslaught that he was about to receive.

“Gregory,” he attempted to sound cheerful and polite despite his fatigue, not wanting to irritate the man any further. “What can I do for you?”

The other man came to a halt in front of him, eyes full of anger and his breath coming in short pants.

“You know exactly what you can do; I want him gone!” Gregory thrust a clubbed finger in the direction of the medical trailer, gesturing wildly.

Jesus didn’t need to guess to know who he was referring too. If anything he was surprised that Gregory had noticed the presence of their newcomer so soon; usually he was so wrapped up in himself and whatever it was that he spent all his time doing that the population of the community could double and it would likely take him at least a week to even realise.

Neither was he surprised by the balding mans reaction to Daryl’s presence; he was a coward through and through and the fact that Negan’s escaped prisoner was now residing behind their walls put him in danger.

However, one of Paul’s favourite things in the world, and one of his few sources of entertainment, was pissing off Gregory and therefore he decided to play dumb.

“You want who gone?” he cocked his head slightly to the side, holding back a yawn, and feigned confusion.

Gregory huffed incredulously at the response, jaw clenching as he stared at the younger man in front of him.

“Don’t play innocent with me!” he practically shouted, drawing the unwanted attention of a few of the residents who were tiredly passing on their way back to their trailers. “I’m talking about that filthy redneck that you dragged back here!”

Paul felt a flare of anger rise suddenly in his chest at the older man’s derogatory description of Daryl, but he pushed it back down, trying not to let his exhaustion take over and make him do something that he would later regret.

He couldn’t explain what drew him to the closed off, middle-aged man that he had rescued; whether it was sympathy for the way he had been treated, respect for the way that he battled on despite what continuously got thrown at him, debt for the fact that he and Rick had taken him in instead of leaving him to the undead…or something else entirely.

Whatever it was, he refused to let Gregory throw him to the wolves, especially after he had risked his life to get him away from Negan.

“Listen,” Paul started with a heavy sigh, “he’s seriously injured and he needs treatment. Not only that but if you send him back to Alexandria, Negan will track him down straight away; you’d be giving him a death sentence.”

Paul’s voice was calm and steady, unwavering; he’d had to talk his way around Gregory enough times to know exactly what to say.

“That is exactly my point; not only are we wasting valuable resources on him, but if Negan finds him here, he’ll kill us! No…he will kill me!”

Jesus almost scoffed at the words of his leader, shaking his head slightly in disbelief; he had been wondering how long Gregory's self-preservation instinct would take to make an appearance.

Paul had always been aware that the old man was a coward, and that if it came down to it he would likely sacrifice the lives of everyone at Hilltop to save his own useless skin, but to hear him actually say aloud that he was willing to give up Daryl to protect himself, was still shocking.

"As far as Negan is concerned, we aren't even aware that Daryl or any of the other Alexandrian's exist. So there's no reason that he should find out about him being here, is there?"

The end of his question was phrased more like a warning, as if daring Gregory to try anything, after all; he wouldn't put it past his 'leader' to notify Negan of Daryl's presence at the community in order to get himself pardoned.

He liked to think that even Gregory wouldn't stoop that low, but still he couldn't be certain.

"I don't care, I sti-"

Paul couldn't bear to hear a moment more of the other man's empty orders, instead deciding to step forwards so that they were chest to chest, attempting to appear intimidating despite his smaller stature, and jabbed a sharp finger in to the flesh between Gregory's barely-there pecs.

" _Daryl_ ," he almost growled, voice low and firm and leaving no room for argument, making sure to emphasise the use of the injured man's name, "is not going anywhere. Now I suggest that if you have a problem with that, you deal with it."

Gregory was clearly taken back by the younger man's forwardness and veiled hostility, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped, seemingly at a loss for words.

After a few moments he managed to regain his composure, attempting to string words together in to a sentence.

"Fine," he choked out, almost as if the word was painful, "but if anyone gets killed because of him, it's on you."

The words hung heavy between them for a moment in the quickly darkening evening, the only sound audible being the chirping of crickets in the grass and the faint moans of the undead outside of the walls. Paul tried not to think too much about what Gregory was saying; no matter what he decided, there was a possibility of somebody getting hurt.

_People get hurt no matter what, it's inevitable_ , he reminded himself, mainly just to make himself feel better.

When Paul failed to reply any further, Gregory gave him one last withering look before turning on his heel and heading off towards the main house.

"Oh, and Jesus," he called back over his shoulder, "try not to bring anymore strays in."

Paul bit his tongue at the remark, refusing to retaliate, and instead watched as the man disappeared in to the large brick building before starting back off towards his trailer, his mind clouded by the desire to sleep and thoughts of a certain quiet archer.

* * *

 

The next morning Daryl was propped upright in bed, leant awkwardly against the itchy fabric of the linen pillow cases, his bitten down fingernails fiddling with the bandage covering his bullet wound like a restless toddler who kept picking at the scab on their knee.

It was still early, the residents who helped out with the patients having only arrived an hour or so ago, however Daryl felt as if he had been awake for ages. His sleep had been restless and plagued by nightmares; either about that horrific night in the clearing, images of Glenn being beaten in to the ground flashing in his mind, or of being locked up in the cold cell he had been confined to at the Sanctuary, the walls slowly closing in on him until he was being crushed, scrambling for a way out. At least once he had jolted awake, his limbs tangled in the bed sheets that had been drenched in his own sweat, his breathing ragged and coming in short puffs and his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage.

Eventually he had given up all hope of sleep, despite having gotten so little of it recently, and instead had decided to flick through the pages of one of the books that Jesus had lent to him, using the dim light of the lamp next to the bed to allow him to scan over the typed words.

He was unaware how long he had sat there, becoming lost in the tale of Lemuel Gulliver and his experience in Lilliput, the hardback resting heavy atop his thighs and his calloused fingers turning the pages.

Daryl had never been an avid reader; it’s not that he hadn’t wanted to be, he’d just never really been allowed. Not only had he bunked school so much (mainly because his parents had never been aware enough of his existence to actually make sure that he went) that he had never really learnt how to pronounce the more difficult words properly, but if his father had ever caught him curled up with a book he likely would have ended up with a black eye.

He had eventually set down the novel after people began filing in to the medical trailer for their shifts and the other couple of patients had begun to awaken.

The trailer itself was only small; the walls that would have divided it in to separate rooms had been removed so that it was one large open space that fit three beds with curtains around them to give the people in them some privacy. There was a space at the front of the trailer with a desk and some chairs where Carson would examine more superficial injuries and a cupboard and drawers stacked full with medical equipment and resources.

It wasn’t exactly impressive compared to the fully equipped infirmary that they had back at Alexandria, but he supposed that it was enough for the community and that was all that really mattered.

Daryl could hear the bustle of people moving around on the other side of the curtain that surrounded him as he sat picking at the dressing on his shoulder. It was mainly people just filtering in for minor wounds; some people requested that the doctor examine them over a stupid cough or a sore throat which ended up just being a cold, but Daryl guessed that the threat of turning in to a flesh-eating walker if you died had people turning in to hypochondriacs.

He was growing restless, beginning to feel suffocated at the idea of being cooped up in that tiny trailer any longer, itching for a cigarette despite Carson ordering him not to smoke inside, when the curtain around his bed was pulled back to reveal Maggie.

Daryl couldn’t hide his surprise at the appearance of the younger woman, having assumed that she would be busy with anything other than coming to visit him.

He took in her appearance, mainly just to reassure himself as to whether she really was okay; she was clad in Paul’s clothes, which hung limply off of her slender figure and her face was still pale and gaunt, giving her an almost skeletal appearance. However, she looked miles better than she had out in those woods almost a week ago, her eyes having lost their redness, suggesting she had started getting more sleep and she was standing stronger, no longer giving the impression that she was going to collapse at any moment.

Daryl’s eyes flickered to her stomach where one of her hands was rested, although there was still barely any sign of a bump, considering she was still in the early stages of her pregnancy and was fairly slim in build as it was.

“Hey,” she spoke softly as she shuffled in to the space surrounding the bed, “how’re you doin’?” 

Daryl shrugged initially, and regretted it after the action sent a sharp pain through his shoulder blade, looking up at the younger woman from under the hair that hung over his face, but soon realised she probably wanted verbal conformation of his well-being. “’M alright. Could ‘a been worse.”

Maggie gave him a disapproving look that implied she didn’t, in fact, think it could have been worse.

Daryl sat silently, unsure exactly of what to say next, having so many things to say to his friend standing before him but absolutely no idea of how to voice his thoughts.

The younger woman didn’t appear bothered by his silence, instead opting to take a seat in the chair next to his bedside, her hand reaching inquisitively for the book that rested on the cabinet.

Her eyes scanned over it, an amused smirk appearing on her lips as she made the connection that it belonged to Paul, clearly aware of the younger man’s affinity for the archer. However, she decided against mentioning the gift, placing it back down and returning her attention to the man in the bed.

“You okay?” Daryl finally broke the silence, his eyes glued to the leg of the chair to avoid making eye contact, chewing nervously on his lower lip despite the slowly healing cuts on it.

Maggie considered his question for a moment before responding. “I will be.”

Daryl tried not to think too hard about her answer; he knew that she would never get over what had happened to Glenn, hell none of them would, but it still pained him to think about how she had just lost her entire world and it was all his fault.

One of the main reasons that Daryl despised being confined to the creaky old hospital bed was that it gave him way too much time too think; usually he would go out hunting or scouting with Aaron to avoid the self-deprecating thoughts that sometimes consumed him, however he wasn’t currently able to do that in order to avoid the knot of guilt that was slowly getting tighter and tighter in his chest.

He was scared that eventually it was going to get too much, that the blameworthiness would continue to claw harder and harder and eventually it would suffocate him. And every time he laid eyes on Maggie that feeling only became worse.

“Daryl,” the young woman’s thick accent interrupted his train of thought however he continued with his refusal to meet her eye. “Daryl _look at me_ ,” she ordered him softly but firmly, leaning forwards slightly so that it was more difficult for him to avoid her gaze.

He hesitated for a moment, terrified that the second he looked at her he would be met with hatred and disgust, but when he lifted his head, looking at her through the knotted strands of hair that rested against his forehead, there was none of that.

Instead, he got the impression that her warm green eyes could see right through him and directly to what he was thinking. Maggie had always been able to do that; she could see past people’s facades and lies and directly to who they were, similarly to how her father had been able too. It freaked Daryl out, made him feel exposed and under scrutiny.

He had always been such a closed off person, not used to anybody paying any kind of attention to him or bothering to take any notice of how he was feeling and now…now he had an entire family of people who somehow always seemed to know exactly what was going through his head.

Maggie looked at him for a long moment before speaking. “I don’t blame you.”

“No, I-” Daryl began to protest but was immediately cut off.

“Listen to me; I know that you think it was your fault but it wasn’t,” Maggie rested a comforting hand atop of Daryl’s on the bed and the older man’s eyes flickered down at the contact, his brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t blame you, not at all,” she reassured him as honestly as she could. “The only person I blame is _him_ ,” she spat, referring to the villain who had taken his baseball bat to her husband’s skull.

“But if I hadn’t-”

“No,” Maggie shook her head vigorously, cutting off Daryl once again. “You done what all of us were kneeling there wanting to do. And even if you hadn’t…” she took a shaky breath as if trying to keep her composure and to stop herself from breaking down right there and then, “even if you hadn’t…he still would have done it.”

Daryl may not have had the same gift that Maggie did when it came to knowing what people were thinking but it didn’t take a genius to guess that she was sitting there, remembering how her husband had been brutally murdered in front of her.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the young woman was experiencing or the pain that she was feeling; just over a week ago she had been living happily with her husband, having just gotten him back, and they had been overjoyed at the prospect of starting a family together and raising a child. And now…now she was on her own, the centre of her world having been viciously ripped away from her in a matter of minutes, having to face raising a child in the middle of an apocalypse alone.

Maggie’s eyes were watering dangerously when Daryl’s met them again and her hand was trembling slightly on his own, but she appeared determined to finish what she needed to say despite how hard she was finding it.

“He loved you; you were a brother to him and I _know_ that he would not want you blamin’ yourself like this. Glenn…” she paused a moment, gritting her teeth slightly as she spoke his name, “Glenn died because Negan killed him. Not because of you.”

Daryl’s lips trembled as he listened to Maggie, sniffling as he attempted to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill down his cheeks.

The guilt that he felt would never go away; there would always be some part of his brain that insisted that if he hadn’t done what he had, maybe, _just maybe_ , Glenn would still be living and breathing, Maggie would still have a husband and their child would still have a father.

But Maggie’s words did help to ease the feeling of culpability gnawing away at him and as he looked across at her, both of their eyes filled with tears, he thought that maybe what she was saying might hold the tiniest bit of truth.

* * *

When Paul ascended the steps in to the medical trailer and shuffled through the door with a pile of his clothes bundled in his arms, warmly greeting one of the patients waiting to be examined, he was met by the sight of an empty bed where Daryl had previously resided.

The sheets were messy and hadn't been made, suggesting that he hadn't yet been discharged, but he was definitely nowhere to be seen in the compact trailer.

Paul looked around in confusion, expecting the archer to magically appear in front of him. He was perplexed as to where he could be; the drip attached to his arm made mobility difficult (although Paul doubted that would stop the stubborn man) and he didn't really have anywhere else in the community to want to go.

He spotted Carson across the room, a patient sitting before him as he held their left hand in his own, wrapping it in bandage, and he made his way over too him. The patient being treated spotted him first, smiling cheerfully up at him.

"What can I do for you?" Carson didn't bother to lift his eyes away from his work but tilted his head slightly in Paul's direction to acknowledge him.

"Do you know where Daryl is?" the younger man was straight to the point, a feeling of anxiousness beginning to build in him. He knew that his concern was unwarranted and that Daryl had probably just snuck off for a smoke after Carson continuously nagging at him not to light up inside, but he couldn't help but worry that he'd wandered off and gotten himself hurt considering his current state.

"He said he was going to get some fresh air about twenty minutes ago. You've seen what he's like; he's like a caged animal being stuck in here. I told him he could go as long as he's careful and makes sure he's back soon," the Doctor explain slowly, often pausing whilst he focused on wrapping up the hand of the woman sitting before him.

"Should he really be wandering around in his condition?" Paul frowned slightly, fully aware that Daryl was capable of walking around with a drip without injuring himself, but still having a feeling of concern nagging at him.

"Jesus," Carson finally met his eyes, a pointed look on his face that suggested he thought the younger man was being dramatic. "His arm is in a sling and he's got a drip, he's hardly bed-ridden; with a little bit of perseverance he is perfectly capable of going outside for a bit."

Paul gulped, embarrassment beginning to rise up in to his cheeks as he stood there, feeling slightly stupid.

He hoped that when Daryl did finally return, Carson wouldn't mention his little outburst to the older man. He couldn't imagine that Daryl would much appreciate being fussed over by him.

He chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a moment, debating whether to wait for Daryl to come back, but then decided that he didn’t want to keep pushing himself on the quiet man and that despite his concern for his well-being, he should give him his space and let Daryl come to him if he did need anything.

After all, he had only come to give him some fresh clothes.

He smiled gratefully at Carson for his help before moving to place the items of clothing on Daryl’s bed and leaving the trailer.

The community was bustling with energy at this time of the day with everybody busy at work. The older residents that weren’t able to do hard labour were helping to plant vegetables and tend to the gardens, a group of the stronger men were beginning to build one of the new huts that Paul had helped to plan and a couple of the other supply runners were equipping themselves in preparation to go on a quick scan of the surrounding area to look for anything useful.

Paul spotted Sasha, occupied in a spot over by the main house, teaching some of the less-abled people how to defend themselves. It was only basic training; how to use a simple blade, how to load a gun and how to effectively take down a walker but it was still useful and it was appreciated that she was doing her part in helping the community.

He wondered for a moment where Maggie was, considering that she was usually watching Sasha teach her classes, the two of them always more comfortable being together, before he laid eyes on her; she was in the company of Enid and the two of them were standing over by the stables, smiling up at the couple of horses in there.

Even if Maggie hadn’t made an offhand comment to Paul a few days previously that she had been raised on a farm, he would have easily been able to guess it from the way she behaved around the animals. Whilst Enid appeared slightly more unsure, Maggie was clearly a natural with the stallion’s, gently combing her hands through their manes and holding out pieces of apple in her palm for them to greedily take. It was undoubtedly the most relaxed Paul had seen the young woman since her arrival at the Hilltop.

He snapped his attention away from them and instead began making his way over to Barrington house, wanting to talk to Gregory about his plans to go on a week long run at some point in the next month in order to scout for communities slightly further afield.

He was nearly at the house, passing the row of trees that hid the graves of Negan’s victims from sight, when he spotted Daryl behind the shrubbery.

He stopped, looking to where he could just make out the older man’s figure, and contemplated whether or not he should just carry on and leave him be or if he should go to see him and check if he was okay.

Daryl didn’t come off as somebody who appreciated people seeing him get emotional, however Paul could tell that he had a tendency to bottle up his feelings and not express them to everybody. He could relate to that; he too had never opened up to anybody. In the months between the start of the apocalypse and when he had stumbled across the Hilltop he had been on his own, not having anybody to help him out of tough situations or to support him through the darker times, which now meant that he found it difficult to trust people and instead opted to keep his feelings to himself.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be open with somebody, it was more that he was unaware how to do so considering he had never had anybody that really cared.

And as he looked at Daryl, hidden by the leafy boughs of the trees, he thought about how much he wished someone had persisted in trying to talk to him instead of just giving up the first time that he pushed them away and how he had longed for someone to talk too that could understand what he was going through.

And so he decided to round the trees and enter the small clearing where the two graves were situated. His eyes instantly fell on Daryl, who was sat, cross-legged, in front of Glenn’s grave, hunched over slightly with his hair hanging in front of his face.

He didn’t seem to be crying or talking or making any noise at all for that matter. Instead he was just perched there silently, seemingly lost in thought.

Paul considered himself to be stealthy; he prided himself on how he could silently sneak in and out of places, going completely unnoticed, like a ghost. It was what he was known for. That’s why he was startled when Daryl spoke.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” his voice was low and gruff, probably from where he hadn’t spoken in a while, but he didn’t sound angry, more like he was genuinely curious as to the reason for Paul’s presence.

The younger man considered what to answer, because really, he wasn’t exactly sure why he was there.

Instead of replying he stepped forwards, hesitating for a second before sitting himself down on the sandy ground next to Daryl, making sure to keep a reasonable distance between them as not to make him uncomfortable, but being close enough that the other man knew he was there.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours (but in reality was probably only minutes), the faint sounds of the community filling the air around them and the wind blowing the now-deflated balloons that Enid had attached to the cross at the head of Glenn’s grave.

Daryl was still, his hand that wasn’t in the sling was fiddling with the hem of Paul’s shirt that he was clad in, occasionally lifting it to tuck his hair behind his ear and his eyes were locked on the the ground in front of him. The drip attached to his arm stood next to him, sand having gathered on it’s wheels. He looked much cleaner than he had the previous day, the dirt and grime and sweat gone from his body and if Paul peered close enough the ends of his hair still looked damp, suggesting that Carson had got around to wrapping his wound so that it didn’t get wet and he had been able to shower.

Paul didn’t dare say anything, knowing full well that his presence there spoke volumes enough. At least, he thought, Daryl knew that he was there for him.

However, Daryl did eventually break the silence, his voice sounding extremely loud compared to the quiet that they had been sitting in.

“He was out there because of me.” He spoke slowly, eyes still downcast.

Paul sensed that he had more to say and he didn’t want to interrupt him just as he was finally beginning to open up and so he stayed silent.

“I was out for Dwight’s blood; went after him on me own and Glenn came after me, tried t’ talk me in to going back but I jus’ ignored him an’ carried on. If I had jus’-” Daryl choked on his words slightly, overcome with emotion. “If I had jus’ gone with back with him…If I had jus’ listened to what Negan said…” he trailed off, not having to finish the sentence for Paul to know what he meant.

The younger man opened his mouth, ready to tell him that it wasn’t his fault but Daryl continued talking.

“I was a prick t’ him when we first met, had all Merle’s racist bullshit stuck in ma’ head, an’ he never held it against me. An’ Glenn…he saved m’ life more times than I can remember,” the archer shook his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he remembered a fond memory. “He was one tough son of a bitch, probably survived more than all a’ us put together.”

Daryl’s expression grew sombre as he realised that the poor man’s luck had finally run out; that all he had survived meant nothing because of his stupid actions.

“Don’t you think that if Glenn hadn’t been out in the woods with you, he would have been in that RV alongside Maggie?” Jesus asked him softly, attempting to reason with him but not want to further upset the other man.

Daryl finally lifted his head, his eyes flickering to Paul’s for barely a second, looking thoughtful, before dropping back down to the ground.

He bit down on his cut up lower lip, as if debating the words, before shrugging in response.

Clearly, he thought that the younger man had a point.

“Still,” he started, voice low and quiet, “if I hadn’t punched Negan…”

“You don’t think that Negan already knew exactly who he was going to kill?’ Paul twisted his body slightly to get a better look at Daryl and the other man looked at him questioningly, wondering where he was going with this. “That whole thing, every little detail had been planned out to the second; blocking the roads, herding you in to that clearing, none of that was a spur of the moment decision. Negan chose his victims carefully and strategically; he killed Abraham because he was a big guy and he was clearly going to be a threat to him and therefore he had to eliminate him. He killed Glenn because he saw his response to seeing Maggie there,” Paul thought about how the young woman had told him how Glenn had reacted when he was thrown out of the truck and saw her kneeling in the dirt. “He knew that killing him would hit the whole group hard, that it would knock you all off of your feet. _None_ of what he did that night was random. _None_ of it was your fault. He would have murdered Glenn whether you stepped out of line or not.”

Paul finished his little speech, his breathing slightly erratic from where he hadn’t stopped to catch a breath, slightly taken back by his own strong words. He hadn’t quite meant to go on like that.

When he looked up at Daryl he expected the older man to be freaked out by his words but instead he was staring at him in what almost looked like awe.

Daryl swallowed down the emotion that had built in his throat and he could feel the way that his eyes were watering, struck strongly by what the younger man had said. He had never had somebody, especially somebody that he barely knew, care enough to actually understand what he was feeling and to so passionately try to reassure him.

And what Paul was saying _did_ make sense, he knew that what he was saying was logical and likely true but there was still a nagging voice at the back of his mind that made him blame himself.

But the other man’s words did help to ease the pain in his chest, and he appreciated the fact that he was trying to make him feel better, it was more than most people would usually bother to do.

“Thanks,” he sniffed, feeling slightly awkward by the way that Paul’s words had affected him. “Y’know...you didn’t have t’ say any of that.”

Paul smiled softly at him, finding Daryl’s bashfulness endearing.

“I mean it. I know it’s hard, but try to forgive yourself, otherwise you’ll drown in the guilt,” Paul told him, and something suggested to Daryl that he was speaking from experience.

Paul let his words settle for a moment before pushing himself to his feet, wiping the sand from where it had gathered on his trousers and offering a hand out to Daryl.

“Come on, it’s nearly lunch time, why don’t we go and grab something to eat?” he suggested, not wanting to push Daryl but getting the sense that he didn’t want to be on his own at the moment and would appreciate the company. Besides, he doubted that he was in a rush to get back to his bed in the medical trailer.

Daryl stared at the other man’s outstretched palm, contemplating whether to take it and allow himself to start getting on and doing things or to stay on the ground and continue to wallow in self-pity and guilt.

A few silent moments passed.

Daryl took his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments or feedback would be appreciated, I love to know what you think!
> 
> (And let me know what you think about this being either a series or a multi-chaptered fic)
> 
> Twitter: @grimeslincoln


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